As they led the horses back to the dried up pond in silence, Andri prayed for the strength to tell his tale. He’d only recounted it twice before-once in the immediate aftermath of the murders, and once to the Keeper. Though only a child, the depth of Jaela Daran’s compassion had utterly disarmed him. While she had held his much larger hands in her own, he had wept for his loss for the first and only time.
The embers of their fire were still warm, and Greddark had a new blaze going in a matter of moments. They sat around the campfire, the dwarf watching him expectantly while Irulan stared into the flames, lost in her own thoughts.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Andri nodded. He took a deep, fortifying breath, made the sign of the Flame, and began his tale.
“It was 993 YK. My father, Alestair, had just returned from a successful hunt in the Burnt Wood. He even brought me the claws of the werewolf he’d slain.” Andri reached up to touch the necklace he wore, his fingers running lightly along the chain, touching each claw in turn before closing around the silver holy symbol they framed. “He’d been scratched by the lycanthrope but took belladonna immediately and was sure he’d escaped infection.”
As Andri looked into the dancing orange flames, he could see his father’s confident expression and hear the pyromancer’s laugh as he dismissed Andri’s fears, as clearly as if the paladin were once again in the room with his parents. Of course, he hadn’t been a paladin then. He hadn’t learned of Cardinal Brynde’s decision until the following week. The same day that he learned that his father’s certainty had been misplaced.
“Nine days later, on the night of the next full moon, we found out he was wrong.…”
Wir, Lharvion 18, 993 YK
… Andri walked out of the Cardinal’s chambers as calmly as he could, nodding to the beaming secretary as he passed, but once he was out in the hall, he couldn’t contain his joy any longer.
With a whoop that earned him startled glances from several passers-by, Andri took off at a run for his parents’ quarters-he couldn’t wait to tell them. They lived on the third floor of the aptly-named Tower of St. Valtros. The saint had been the first paladin called to serve the Silver Flame, an honorable tradition that Andri had been deemed worthy to continue.
He’d made it! After four hard years of study, he’d passed his final tests at the Psalm of the Flame Seminary, and tonight Cardinal Brynde had informed him that he was being accepted into the Order of Templars on Victory Day, just three weeks hence. He was going to be a paladin!
He knew his mother would be a little disappointed. As a high-ranking priestess in the Order of Ministers, she had hoped her only child would follow in her footsteps and become a priest. But his Uncle Ajiuss, a Templar himself, would be bursting with pride, and his father would be utterly ecstatic. Andri couldn’t wait to see Alestair’s face when he told him the news!
He took the servants’ corridors, and his pace brought him to the west-facing tower within minutes, though he had to dodge a group of maids, nearly upsetting their laundry cart. But even their angry recriminations could not dampen his mood.
He had done it! He didn’t think he’d ever been happier or more proud than he was at this moment. He bounded up the stairs as if he wore boots of jumping.
Andri was in such a hurry, he almost stumbled across something long and hard lying at the top of the third floor landing. He kicked it with his toe, sending it skittering across the marble floor as he hopped about on one foot, trying to regain his balance. When he had, he looked down at what had tripped him.
Twin ruby eyes winked up at him from out a silver wolf’s head.
His father’s sword.
Andri stared at the silver blade, confused. What was Alestair’s sword doing on the landing? The pyromancer never went anywhere without it. And then he realized he had kicked the sword into the middle of a crimson pool.
Blood.
Red smears led from one end of the pool down the hallway. Lured on by a dread curiosity, Andri bent down to pick up his father’s sword as he skirted the scarlet puddle and followed the grisly trail.
It led to the body of a serving girl, only a few years younger than Andri. She was responsible for making sure the tenants on this floor had fresh linens. For some reason, Andri could not remember her name.
She lay on her back, glassy blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. Her throat had been torn out, so savagely that he could see the bones of her spine.
The thick smell of blood and the sight of her glistening tendons and exposed muscle made Andri’s stomach churn. He turned his head and vomited, hot bile burning his mouth and nose.
When he could breathe again, he moved over to the girl’s body and bent to close her eyes, murmuring a prayer for her soul. As he touched her skin, he realized she was still warm.
That meant the killer could still be nearby, on this floor.
He knew he should go find the guards and raise the alarm, but if whoever had done this was still here, then people-his parents-were in danger.
Is that why his father’s sword had been lying discarded on the floor? Had the pyromancer faced the killer? Had he been overpowered and forced to flee? Or had Alestair stumbled across the girl’s body himself and realized that Andri’s mother could be next?
No, Andri couldn’t wait. He had to find his parents. Now.
Bloody footprints led from the serving girl’s body down the hall. Though the tracks were smudged and indistinct, Andri thought he could make out what looked like claws.
He wasn’t looking for a human, then. For some reason, that made him feel better.
Hurrying down the corridor, he followed the crimson trail past several closed doors, until he found an open one. Another body lay just inside the doorway-a man who, like the girl, had had his throat torn out. He’d probably been on his way to Mass, if the prayer books scattered on the floor were any indication, though the service didn’t start for another quarter bell. The man’s piety had likely gotten him killed.
Andri didn’t bother to stop, merely mumbled a quick prayer for the man as he picked up his pace until he was almost jogging. The closer he got to his parents’ quarters, the more his fear grew.
He rounded a corner and almost tripped over a third body, but he didn’t even pause to look to see if this victim was male or female. His parents lived at the end of this hall.
And their door was open.
Andri resisted the urge to call out. If the killer was in there, he wanted to take him-no, it-by surprise. He paused at the doorway to wipe sweaty palms on his pants and make the sign of the Flame. Then, with a wordless prayer, he entered his parents’ apartments, cautiously stepping over the threshold.
The foyer and living room were empty, with everything in its proper place and no sign of any struggle. The tell-tale red prints led across the rich Aerenal rug towards the bedrooms and his father’s study. As Andri followed, he could only think how angry his mother was going to be when she saw the mess-the rug had been a wedding present from her childhood friend, Lavira Tagor, who was now the Keeper of the Silver Flame. He remembered the one time he had tracked mud across the fine weave-his mother had threatened to take him to the Keeper, to make him explain to the head of the Church why he had so little respect for her incredibly generous gift. Andri, who even then had known he was called to serve the Flame, had begged his mother not reveal his sin to the Keeper, and spent three nights on his hands and knees scrubbing the stains out of the rug himself. He’d never set foot on it again, and even now he skirted the edge as he trailed the killer.